The Undeclared War on Domesticity

Please allow me to introduce myself. American Girl. Downtown dilettante. Amateur philosopher and overworked artist. I'm the girl at the farmer's market buying organic produce and realizing I've again forgotten my eco-friendly cloth carrier bag. The chick at Red Zebra repeating my intention to get to bed early every 20 minutes before staggering out at 2AM with everyone else. The gal who writes a song everyday in the car on my way to wherever I'm calling "work" that day. And the loft-dwelling lady with Donna Reed aspirations. That last word is important. I rarely achieve my dream of domestic design bliss. But I don't stop wanting it. A well-tended home is a grander dream than a shoe closet.

But I am alone in this. Right?

I didn't grow up in Betty Crocker land. This isn't about nostalgia for anything from my own life. My mom worked all the time, like I do. She was a good mom - folded my laundry, packed my lunches and made my Halloween costumes. But she wasn't the type to plan a menu or decorate a cake or keep an herb garden. She had other stuff to do. But the first time I decided - on a whim - to get up and make the recipe for chicken enchiladas I saw in a magazine ad for cheese, I was sold. The smell wafting from the oven. Watching the cheese melt. The gleeful surprise from my family when they found a home-cooked meal on the table. Immaculate and unparalleled satisfaction.

But life took me through stints in artsy fartsy theater and existentially-induced nausea and all-night parties and jazz jazz jazz. And I had a new set of friends among whom the domestic arts were NOT revered. They were - if anything - a brutal manifestation of the continued subjugation of women. My awesome new pals bragged about their utter incompetence in the kitchen. And why not? We were designing a new way of being. One that worked for US. And being at home meant you had nothing to do. Any effort expended to improve your own home was an admission that you had time for drudgery and were thus, less than fabulous.

But I never bought it. It struck me as inexcusably lame to take pride in ignorance, especially when the result of it was being unable to take care of yourself. My fashionista crowd dutifully educated themselves on trends and gossip, while cultivating a childish dependence on take-out and freeze-dried and readymade food products. Then the same girls would moan incessantly about weight gain and dull skin and persistent colds. They would swap product recommendations and talk juice fasts, charging arrogantly toward a future of excessive consumption and excessive waste. Their lives were entirely store bought. Cupboards devoid of anything perishable. Bathrooms crammed with half-used lotions and potions, languishing forgotten behind the newer arrivals. The boxes, bottles and cartons needed to transport this life from the manufacturer to the consumer piled up next to overflowing wastebaskets. The veggie pizza and over-packaged salad arrived regularly at the door - salt and fat conveniently prepared by someone less fabulous than we.

The message was clear: Carrie Bradshaw uses her oven for storage.

But those girls went the way of all my other ill-conceived youthful experiments. Now I make my home in the heart of the city, surrounded by books, music, art, thoughts... And homemade Cream of Cucumber soup a la Julia Child, garnished with cucumber slices and chopped fresh dill and served on my urban jungle balcony.


2 perfect post-rehearsal suppers:

1st Night Menu:

Julia's Cream of Cucumber Soup served warm
Spinach salad with cheddar and almonds, dressed in oil and vinegar/salt and pepper
Broiled Cod rubbed with olive oil and Tom Douglas Rub With Love Chicken Rub
Mounds (yeah, the candy bar. I spent a while on the soup. Had to keep everything else simple.)

2nd Night Menu:

The soup served cold
Egg noodles stirred with cottage cheese
Cheddar slices and Olive Oil/Cracked Pepper Triscuits